Musée Hergé — Le Caricaturiste Prolifique

La superbe travail de Hergé!

A simple and fastidious ride on the trains here in Belgium will take you everywhere. They are quiet, clean, and I have found them always on time. We rode to Louvain-La-Neuve where the train stops at UCL – the home of the Musée Hergé – an amazing museum in tribute to an extraordinary artist (one of the greatest of the 20th Century any Belgian will tell you) and one whose oeuvre makes them very proud. The architecture of the building and grounds alone will leave you breathless. Once inside the labyrinthine display areas complete with Beatlejuice-esque, non-adjacent walls and ceilings (see the virtual tour here) you find an extremely detailed showcase of the work of a man whose most popular series “Les Aventures de Tintin” were but one part of the total work output in the life of this fascinating cartoonist. Georges Prosper Remi (Hergé his pen name) was born in May of 1907 in Etterbeek, Belgium. (An interesting aside for me, this is also the train station where I have been taking trains and a few buses all over Brussels and to some outlying areas as it is 4 blocks from where I am staying!)

Today, Hugh and I rode the train 40 minutes outside of Brussels to the lovely city of Ghent where we are staying in one of the many AirBnB residences offered here. As it turns out, there are choices for AirBnB stays all over Belgium and throughout Europe. We had to kill some time to wait for our host whose work day did not end until 5:30, so we were able to stash our overnight luggage in a locker at the train station to walk about some. Once out of the station, we stopped in an instant to notice bicycles everywhere that were lined up next to one another for as far as the eye could see, wrapped around trees and metal bike stands, parked and locked. Everyone is in pretty excellent shape here because they RIDE everywhere. We found ourselves strolling through a huge park right outside the station that was quite lovely, but not before stopping first for some refreshment. The pace in Ghent provides a more suitable vacation vibe; everyone seems to be in a rush-rush in Brussels – not so here. Alas, it’s time to go out again to walk about and look at the lovely Historic City Centre at the confluence of two rivers.

Adventures of Tintin covers in 70 languages– panoramic shot on Apple iPhone 6.

all photos c.2015 Hugh Lovell

The Sound of Leuven

Listen…

Sometimes to capture the feeling of a place, all you have to do is close your eyes and listen. But in Belgium, beware! Be sure you are not in the path of a bicyclist! Everyone has a bicycle and many traverse the cobblestone roads at high speed, so look out tourists. Such is the case in the beautiful university town of Leuven where my dear pal Hugh and I were treated to a 20-minute drive outside of Brussels to this vibrant place full of people, sights, smells, and sounds. Have you put on your headphones and listened yet?

The next post will feature some of the amazing photos of the day taken by Hugh in the Farmer’s Market, in the cafe, of the magnificence of the architecture… I know no one better to capture the visual spirit of a place.

C’est ça…

That’s it.

Ahhh, so many things to do here in Brussels with plenty of time…

It’s easy to find oneself in a bubble, a time warp, a place inside that stands still among the busy activity of those around me who have somewhere to be at a given time. I’m staying in a neighborhood far from the tourist areas in the university district of the neighborhood called Ixelles. I have watched the place go from chilly cloudy days with some rain to a heatwave that struck bringing 90 degree heat (30 celsius) with high humidity. In the blink of an eye, one finds lovely outdoor furniture on every corner with 3 or more umbrella tables ready for customers who wish to quench their thirst. This, mind you, in the places where everyone who lives here does their everyday living.

When you travel to the tourist area as you can see in this magnificent panoramic photo taken by my friend Hugh in the Grand’ Place (aka Grote Markt in Dutch), you’ll find plenty of these types of places lined up everywhere. What I find remarkable, they exist in the places where people live as well. This signifies something very different than what we have in the U.S. – small comfortable resting stops with a unique flair that beckon one to slow down and take a break. You can argue that we have Starbucks and Jamba Juice et al, sometimes with tables outside, but are those unique? No. They are la même chose répétée. (I can hear my Aunt asking “Honey, what does that mean? All of these strange words in your writing. I don’t understand.”) It means the same thing repeated. Why would I want to go into the same looking place over and over throughout my country? I eat at one Cracker Barrel in the far reaches of the south and walk into the same Cracker Barrel several states north of the deep south and they look exactly the same and offer the same menu…no change.

I love the differences between each little cafe and sidewalk bar/restaurant. Everything is unique and easy in the neighborhoods where people hustle and flow. What they know how to do that Americans who work in the cities can learn from: rest, take a break, enjoy life for a minute even when work beckons. They take their pause for lunch and it’s an hour-and-a-half, minimum.

The heatwave came and went in one day bringing thunderous showers by its end. It felt remarkable for someone who lives in an area of the U.S. struck by drought. Rain, beautiful rain, I love it.

c. 2015 Hugh Lovell

Voilà tout ce qu'elle a écrit

Déjeuner avec Shannon

Elle est arrivée!

In other words, I have received my sagacious and sarcastic cohort; my personal assistant who allows me to work quickly and feel accomplished is with me once again. I’ve been attempting to write on the difficult surface of an iPad for 7 days! Many love it, mais, je préfère un vrai clavier just like I had when as a wee lass learning to type in 7^th and 8^th grade when it was forced on me. I wanted to take auto shop class as my elective to learn how to fix a car. Mom insisted that I take typing “for my future”. I had no intention of being a secretary. Ha. Little did I know of the foresight my Mom expressed back then. Our entire lives are built around a keyboard of some sort, for now. But I’m sure that there will be other methods in our future ability to input into “the cloud”.

I cannot describe how much better this feels to be typing on a real keyboard. It’s a 2012 MacBook Air that I shall forever here on out call Shannon for the place she was found after a long trip in the air from Oakland to LA, LA to NY. That’s where we parted ways. I went off to Reykjavik and the laptop ended up in a small airport in Shannon, Ireland. While I lounged at the Blue Lagoon spa in Reykjavik, it crossed my mind that I may never see her again and she held SO MANY details of my life and all of my creative work for the past 3 years. Of course, I have it all backed up at home on 2 hard drives, but they are nowhere near Brussels where I am now and where Shannon has finally arrived exactly one week after I departed Oakland. My flight left at 11:15a last Wednesday and Shannon arrived at 10:16a (Brussels time) this Wednesday, 7 days later. This entire trip was originally planned around Shannon accepting all of the thoughts and ideas I have been harboring and wishing to download out of my brain for months. (years, actually) I have not had a speck of time to truly let go and write with reckless abandon. Well, here it is.

It seemed a desire of the universe to make this easier for me as she intervened to allow me 6 days of pure whatever without the familiarity of spending time in front of a keyboard; something I do all of the time while at work and in play. Really, the only time away from Shannon is when I teach as I’m in front of a class and then among a plethora of audio equipment for hours teaching my students exactly what to do and how to do it. Then, I return to Shannon to complete myriad other never-ending tasks that I must do in daily diligence. The lists of items grow with every hour. So much more than is humanly possible to complete, piled on with no reprieve. And I’m very fast at tasks. There are just far too many…

I’m seated in a restaurant with a huge outdoor section at 1:33p (13:30 is the way the rest of the world accounts for time), eating a “Salade Ibericque” consisting of grilled and sliced sausage, grilled calamari strips, tomatoes, cucumber, mixed lettuce and parmesan. (On the menu: chorizo grillé, calmars grillés, salade mixte, roquette, & parmesan – everything sounds and reads better in French.) I couldn’t help but order Frites Maison, as I have not had them at all since the day I arrived, choosing instead to imbibe my calories in the liquid form with over 300 Belgian bière to choose from. I’m only enjoying one a day–today’s is a Leffe Blonde. One-a-day, I told myself as I might grow 3 sizes if I’m not careful. After many days here in Belgium, I will spend many more in Italy!

Many here are bustling about on a quick lunch break from school and work. The family near me is on a holiday as am I. I can tell by their pace. It matches mine while everyone else is on “10”. The kids stare in wonder at the odd arrangement of food on my plate. Mom requests politely in French just what I have ordered. As I type, I feel one child, maybe 9-years-of-age, continue to stare, but in a good way that kids do when they want to know more…not in judgment. I am also the only one with a laptop out at their table. Everyone else uses their petite phone to type messages and such. I read further in the chapter titled “The Blue of Distance” last night in Rebecca Solnit’s book: “For the elderly, often the nearby and recent become vague and only the faraway in time and space is vivid. For children, it’s the distance that holds little interest. They want to be engaged with what is immediately before them.”

As I slowly sip and taste each bite, it seems as though I’m in slow motion in comparison to the other patrons. I realize that when you witness everyone rushing around while you are on vacation, you know that you, too, rush at home in your life, every day, every minute. Many of my friends have advised that I take up yoga, tai chi, meditation; anything to get my body moving and my mind OUT of work mode. I know that I have changed in the past 3 years. I’ve lost a couple of friends because of it. I’ve become harder, angrier, faster-paced, with no time for anyone except for heart-filled attempts to save public education as my college is under siege and I am but one of many tourniquets attempting to stave off the bleeding.

The family departed with an “au revoir” tossed back at me with smiles. I look around me at les autres who dine here today. The place has cleared out somewhat as it’s now 14:03. A young couple with a baby in a carrier on their table sit discusses the bill. Just beyond them, a man with a tightly shaved head and face (like Fred Flintstone’s face-shadow) looks at his dining companion with a clenched forehead. His puffy, red face shows a bit of annoyance as he smokes the dregs of a cigarette, sqinting through the smoke. Behind me, the sonorous language of Italian spoken rapidly into a cell phone enters my consciousness. I can tell that the man is on a phone as there is no audible answer to any of his statements, only brief bursts of silence.

One quick [language] aside: I’m just beginning to find it odd that there are two forms of the pronoun “you” in Spanish and French. One is more formal (usted or vous), yet I can’t remember when it’s correct to use one over the other. Of course, you use a formal you for elders, but there are fewer of them in my life these days. Ha. I’m in the middle of age! And here’s one for a tickle as I notice some dark clouds circle in and I realize that I have no umbrella: it’s called a “paraguas” in Spanish and “parapluie” in French. Both make total sense: translated to “for water” and “for rain”, respectively. Umbrella with Latin/Italian origins speaks of shade as in protection from the sun. hmmm. wimpy.

As I move my finished plate to the other side of the table, I notice that Shannon is lighter than the plate! THIS is one of my favorite aspects of Apple design. When they get it right, and quite often they do, it’s totally ON!

Welcome back, Shannon!

One Degree of Dana

Signs all around me.

This appears to be the motivation behind this trip: “No stress”. Even when given a 90-mph stress ball pitch the moment I landed, the “no stress” meme was in full swing. It is for this reason that everyone needs to find some way to take a regular break to unwind as it is something I have not accomplished in 5 years. I have let work be the driver, the motivating principle in all that I do. I sure noticed the change the minute I unhooked, checked out, hopped a plane, and left my regular life behind for awhile.

Brussels! What a huge difference from Reykjavik and a perfect next step on this journey that will take me to many parts in western Europe for the next 30 days. Happy June a tout le monde!

The airport in Brussels is quite modern and very bright. Unlike the slower pace in Iceland, everything was rush-rush, hustle-bustle and I had to step it up a notch so as not to be mowed down by my fellow international travelers. Awaiting my arrival were two wonderful people whom I came to know during the weekend of their daughter’s graduation from the program I teach. They invited me to visit some day after our fun-filled evening out on the town in San Francisco a couple of years ago and they meant it. “Come to Europe and stay in Brussels. We are at the center of everything and it’s easy to go everywhere from here.” When my work this year far surpassed being “too much”, I knew I had to disconnect from the mothership for awhile. Here I am.

In the home, Spanish is spoken as the family hails from Barcelona originally but have lived in Brussels for 20+ years. In Brussels, everyone speaks French so I’m deeply entrenched in my two favorite languages, thankfully both of which I speak some. I say “some” because it’s been well over 20 years that I’ve had sharpened practice in either and suddenly I’m thrust into both. The wonderful “Lala” of 90-years-young and the mother of my hosts is full of life and happy to chat with the newcomer: “Entonces, esta bueno si tu parlez le Francais aussi parce que hablo los dos tambien.” Perfect. I understand this and today I was caught with my mouth open speaking both at the same time when a shop owner quizzically asked where I was from since I’m speaking two languages at once. His eyes widened when I told him San Francisco. Um, yeah. We do a LOT of things in a non-traditional way there. (Malheureusement, hablando en dos lenguas al mismo tiempo est pas un d’entre eux.) OK. Enough of that. My Auntie already outed me on Facebook to please translate for her when I attempt to make a funny post using bits of language. The best part is it prompted an old pal from school days (“Hey, Darlene!”) to pipe in about our teachers in high school and we’ve gone off on tangents about Señora Lopez (our Spanish teacher) and Mr. Weill (our Geography teacher) both of whom she reminded me but whipping up a scan from our yearbook, tout suite, for me to see. THIS brings me to my next thought here and the reason for the title which one of my buds and fellow colleagues used as the subject line in an email to me about my trip.

“One Degree of Dana” (thank you Denise!). Can we take a pause here to marvel at how amazing it is that I can instantaneously keep my people informed and in discovery WITH me right up to the minute on my trip? I am an ocean, a continent, and 9 time zones away from home and we can all input and have a laugh at my excursions and multiple daily missives as I “postcard live” on Facebook and post occasionally here. (It was supposed to be a daily occurrence, but my Shannon Air is in Ireland until Wednesday when she will be delivered to me and I will, once again, be reunited with my best writing buddy I have ever known. See previous post for details. And yes, I’m a dork and WILL BE LOUDLY SINGING the Peaches and Herb classic hit “Reunited” when FedEx delivers while I sign for it.)

It blows my mind that I can post a picture in one second and have friends comment on it immediately. It is both amusing and amazing that I can tease a friend with text verbiage from my phone simultaneously in the moment I’m having an experience. (Yes, there are finally plans available for you to actually USE YOUR EXISTING CELLPHONE when traveling…see AT&T’s Global Passport and whatever Verizon is calling theirs. These just started Mar 2015, and are worth every dollar–I have a 30-day plan or you can purchase a 3-month plan) So, your people are literally there with you which is why I refer to my phone as my spaceship. Are we not traveling through space to hang out together now? 🚂🚞🚅🚊🚀🚀 Ready? Blast off!

And this brings me around to my more solemn realization that I’m learning on this trip from all of the signs presented to me daily. I have spent more time with people I love in this “spaceship mode” on my trip than I ever do in person, and THIS is an awful tragedy! I’m always too busy to get together with people. I almost never accept an invitation anymore or I say “maybe” knowing that when the weekend comes I will want solace and downtime for me alone. How has it come to this when I’m one of the most gregarious people I know?? I’ll tell you what: WORK. I have enslaved myself to my work as it’s never-ending and it’s all I do 90-hours-a-week. I blame myself because I take this on and put it on my own shoulders to make this choice and I can tell you that this trip (even in its nascence) has shown me the signs. Most people here do NOT live like this. Family, friends, and joie de vivre come FIRST. (I’ll be blowing my stack about this and other America(n) crASSbackwards thoughts and our f’ed up situation on my other blog that I save for rants at wordpress.danajae33.com when Shannon comes back) so let me stick to this point: I can and will no longer subject my self to all work and no play as this goes far beyond “makes Johnny a dull boy” as it literally kills Johnny from head to toe in self-inflicted illness called stress.

One last sample of a moment here to hopefully tie this all together: I took a walk last night to be sure that I understood the neighborhood and my whereabouts here in the very cramped and wonderfully busy Brussels. There were cafes and bars galore all beckoning me in for a nightcap. People enjoy beer here but I was in the mood for something stronger, so I entered a busy spot filled with the vibrant living of young people (I’m staying in the university district) and proceeded to order a Blue Lagoon. I was a bit uncomfortable in my first foray alone speaking French and making sure that no Spanish crept in. I thought I did fine until TWO tall ice-filled glasses of blue swimming pools arrived at my solo table. I stopped the waiter with a simple question “Two?” I was sure I hadn’t slipped the word deux in my order! He replied quickly which was difficult for me to capture, but I believe he said that it was a two-for-one special and proceeded to request money for one. I paid. Laughed for a minute, and reached for the book I’m reading as I knew it would be awhile. What unfolded in Rebecca Solnit’s next three pages in “A Field Guide To Getting Lost” blew me away. She began a discourse in art history and the use of the color blue in the first paintings that started to open up with the use of sky and space in the beyond as a connotation to the viewer of “being there” along with the subject in the artwork. She discovered in life that being somewhere in the blue of the “beyond” in a picture and in life never allows us to actually arrive because blue is always moving further beyond. It is not anywhere to arrive at; it is a moving target, if you will. (I’m totally paraphrasing here and you must find this book and read it because it is one that nurtures the soul, for sure.) So there I sat, sipping two Blue Lagoons, reading about the ephemeral color blue, hearing people chatter in French in the background while also listening to some quietly-playing Birelli Lagrene, a protégé of Django Reinhardt and guess what? a Blue Note Records recording artist.

Encroyable!

Handle the weather…

The Story of Shannon, Audrey, and Bally

Flying quickly from northern Cali to southern Cali to NY and then on to Reykjavik and changing planes all the while, my as-of-yet-unnamed companion/spaceship/central processor of all things Dana Jae, took a detour. She stayed on the plane at JFK while I busted hiney hauling myself across terminal 2 at JFK to hop my flight to Reykjavik. She was likely giggling all of the way to wherever that plane was bound next, averting the cleaning crew between flights.

I discovered my loss hours later upon my arrival in Reykjavik. The minute I found the empty slipcover in my backpack, I knew. I had charged her on the last plane, carefully wrapping up the damn charger, but missing the entire point of the charge: to take care of my brainiac partner since 2012 who has been my trusty aid through online teaching, digital media-making, most of my new life communications, and the recipient of all of my story ideas and edits. She’s loaded with special software and connected to my entire life. Gone in a fleeting instant. Oddly, I felt super calm as an immediate new Dana emerged. Something took over my mind and heart setting me free of worry. “It is what it is,” the voice inside gently spoke. I sifted slowly through two more pockets knowing full well that she wasn’t there. I walked around the teensy, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, Reykjavik airport. I found an agent in a construction zone handling missing baggage. “Oh, that’s too bad. The best we can do is to have you contact Delta at JFK airport and they may have it in their lost and found. Do you remember the terminal you came in on?” My mind sifted through the numerous delay messages transmit from cockpit to passengers about the delay and I knew he told us several times which terminal, only it was clouded by another terminal he said some would have to catch a shuttle to. Was it Terminal 2 or 4? I had a 50/50 chance. “Terminal 2”, I said, wondering if this would hinder my chances at retrieval. She said, “I’ll Google the number for you to call.” (All English exchanged in that lovely Nordic English accent with the over-pronounced “R” in every word it appears.)

After capturing some Krona at the ATM, I walked out to the first cab I found and asked the strapping Erling for a ride to The Blue Lagoon where I was to spend the first several hours in Iceland soaking and simmering in a hot lava body of sulphuric water. “Good luck, laptop! I hope I find you among the myriad digital toys lost everyday at JFK.” Erling and I exchanged stories about losing important items. I was still calm even though just 30-hours prior, the old me would be fending off a heart attack in sadness at my loss. I called JFK upon arrival at the Lagoon in the welcoming cafe I found on the premises after checking in my luggage (they expect travelers coming in from the airport), and heard a very nice agent with a thick Brooklyn accent tell me to call after 1p to see if they had it. She assured me that they bring in hundreds of laptops and iPads a day. I figured on beginning the process of fully letting go since it seemed a chance in hell of them actually having it, let alone be able to find it. Imagine having her job…

Hours later while enjoying an amazing lunch in the Lava restaurant at Blue Lagoon, I saw an unusual email from Ireland. Audrey, a Delta agent at the wee Shannon airport office, contacted me to inform me that an electronic device was in her hands which she believed to be mine. NO WAY!! I smiled and felt rainbows burst from inside me. Ireland!! My unnamed digital companion flew to Ireland! And how odd that Ireland and Iceland are but one letter from each other. Universal trickster tried me and I won!

She answered my email today informing me that they cannot ship it anywhere but rather I would have to arrange for a FedEx/UPS pick up from them. They were only open until 1:30 today and Monday is a bank holiday in Ireland. Alas, after an hour of arranging all of the details this morning in an online chat with Bally of FedEx-UK, all will be well by Tuesday’s courier pick up to deliver to me in Belgium on Wed.

Shannon (the now earned name of my spaceship/companion/laptop) will be with me once again then. In the meantime, I’m sure she’s kicking it at O’Malley’s airport bar this weekend conjuring up stories with the flight mechanics after their long day of work, knocking back a Guinness.

A year ago, I had the pleasure of reading stories and media creations turned in to me by one of my students who always referred to her computer as “Chester”. It tickled me to name a laptop as I searched for something to call mine. Nothing came through at that time. Shannon she is now and forever will be.

Too Pooped to Post

What an amazing self-embrace one can feel when JUMPing into travel. Time stands still to remind us to free ourselves from the quotidian madness.

For example, I have so much to describe from the past 24-hours, but am thwarted by this iPad that I simply do not enjoy typing on, while my real input device is out on the town in Shannon, Ireland. Yes, it seems she created a diversion for me by scaring me into thinking I would miss my plane to Reykjavik, while she stealthily hung low in the magazine holder in the seat pocket in front of mine at JFK in New York. She knew she would not enjoy the Icelandic cold and hot springs, stuffed in my backpack, while I luxuriated. This place would be bad for her girlish MacBook Air figure. So, instead, she trolloped off to Ireland without me! Harrumph! Fine. I spent hours in the geothermal, lava Rock pool at The Blue Lagoon forgetting about her. My skin and hair feel fantastic and I can do without HER utilitarian assistance today…and tomorrow…ear, until whenever the agent in Ireland can safely return her to my fingertips when we can once again share in a Vulcan mind meld of human creativity through input device to CPU and on to data drive for safe storage. “Hey, universe! Could you arrange for Her voice thread to receive an upgrade while there to say, a Scarlett Johanssen tone? I shall forever after call Her Shannon.

I’m far too tired to attempt further typing on this blasted iPad keyboard. Coming at you Live & Exhausted from Reykjavik, Iceland where time stands still and people are polite and look-alike and by golly, I look like them too.

The Eve Of My Leaving

Naturally, when one engages in all of the “night before” packing, planning, and last minute everything-ing for a trip abroad, the mind wanders to previous travels. Memories begin to flood in from my Euro-expeditions in a spinning circular Rolodex. It’s been longer than a decade since the last trip across the ocean.

Some first peregrinations there pervade the senses: During a few years in the early 1990’s, I spent hours on end in a rented lorry driving on the wrong side of the vehicle (it was rented in London), to nearly every mid-sized nightclub in Europe with an “up-and-coming-band” from Los Angeles. Thinking myself the only one of sound mind and disposition, I volunteered to be the driver everywhere but in the U.K. where I was certain I would kill us all. It was bad enough to be driving from the passenger seat with the stick shift to my left, but top it off with driving on the wrong side of the road too? No way.

Recollections begin to drift in as I triple check my suitcase:

5-days in the Czech Republic with 2 days OFF (the only ones) in Prague.
a morning off in Vienna where a store owner gave me the wrong change for a bottle of water that cost elf-neunzig. He kept my entire fünfzig per diem, claiming I only paid him fünfzehn. I told him the fünfzig was all I had in the world for the next 3 days and surely he would see it in his drawer as his mistake. He cast me away. He was rotten. I sat outside his store on the sidewalk, sipping water and crying. I made sure that everyone who walked by knew he was a cheater. He finally walked out and handed me the proper change two hours later. He tired of my bad publicity to his potential customers.
a tavern in the north of England that had just received ceramic swag advertising Boddington’s Bitters, handing me the coolest ashtray that I still use to this day as my key holder near my front door.
the 6-hour detention of the band arriving in Stockholm by ferry from Copenhagen because a rock band must surely be carrying drugs purchased from those lenient Danes. Every panel was ripped from the interior of the van, every nook and cranny searched with flashlights, along with the lead singer (a female) and I strip-searched by poker-faced, big Swede female, zero-tolerance officers who knew we must have something in the hems of our pants or other hidden places. The only thing they found in the vehicle was a tincture of Valerian and several ashtrays filled with previously smoked, rolled cigarette leftovers. Most members of this band did not even imbibe let alone partake in any drugs beyond herbal remedies. Well, the drummer and the lead singer drank enough for everyone, but…We finally made it to the gig way past sound check only to find they had been booked in a discotheque with no stage monitors and a surround sound system wired from the DJ booth. I got very creative with the mix that night…on the fly.

This excursion will be quite unique for me. It’s the first time I’m traveling alone and my voyage holds a unique bookend of time to spend in Reykjavik, Iceland for two days each at the beginning and end of the trip. The fairy-tale land of music by Sigur Rós, Björk, Of Monsters and Men, Seabear, and the Icelandic Airwaves awaits. Drop me in the Blue Lagoon upon my arrival after 11 hours in the air.

The extras about one’s travel: you pull out your passport after having not looked at it for a few years only to find you look either like a fugitive or someone in the witness protection program. Who is that staring back at me? You friends circle around to wish you well in various lovely personal send-offs: some provide a lovely new book to read on your trip, a pocket “Italian for Travellers”, and a reminder to take your pencils to doodle.

Stop back in to check out the travel blog here. You’re welcome to hang out with me to see, hear, and watch as I trip the light fantastic in the lands of my people.

Cheers to Liz the Young Adventuress for the photo.

Transformation Imagination

I will bounce along the waves from coast to coast transforming time from wine into rhyme. New layers await as I move through space to lands that do not discriminate. Long journey in air, long journey across sea, long journey to be for you and me.

Mourning Mom – a Meandering Memorial

Year five since her passing and this holiday still slices another piece of my heart. Here is my offering of verbiage to accompany the ascendant sacrifice to the universe of Moms.

If you lived a life of love with your Mom, then you’ll certainly understand what I mean. For those who have experienced a different sort, then I feel the question on your mind. How does one feel all of this reverence for a parent? Believe me, it’s not too difficult when you are blessed with one who gets it even half right.

To set up a context, my Mom was a loon who led me from the depths of harsh reality right up to the bright shining moon. She had her quirks one would witness daily, but she also made my growing up a central part of her universe (in addition to “looking good” while she toiled at it.) She loved Hallmark holidays and with that came this: a training of how to make Mom feel special on her one day of the year recognized on American calendars. This second Sunday in May, a month before school ends, became the day I learned to “shower the people you love with love and show them the way that you feel.” (Thank you, James Taylor.)

Carnations are the flower of Mother’s Day thanks to Anna Jarvis, the woman who conceived the idea and brought 500 of them to the first celebration in 1908. *(this wiki tells me)* But interestingly enough, I discovered that she decried the commercialization of the holiday when “the greeting card industry” took it over with their purchased cards that displaced the personal letter to Mom. Go, Anna! And another quick aside: this day is one that Americans spend $2.6 billion a year on flowers.

I always created my own cards, and this began at age 3. From that second Sunday in May in 1965, I was forever bound to make this one Sunday a special one for Mom. Later in my adolescence, I would awaken her to a breakfast in bed, and then whisk her off to the movies or a play. I would save up my earnings from odd jobs to do something expensive and special to treat her. She no longer had a husband to do such things as they divorced when I was three (Ah! there’s the significance! Eureka! I found it!) And my brothers? Well, you know boys. They just aren’t wired that way. So this day of planning was left to me. Perhaps it was a personal training for my later life as I’ve always been one to conjure up holidays and cards for everyone. Being thoughtful is a lost art in America. It’s time to bring that back!

Many of us mourn the passing of our Mom this day while others wake up to adoring family eyes. Many of us roll over with a pronounced harumph when our kid(s) forget to make us feel special. For those with thoughtless offspring, treat yourself this day to YOU! Forget what isn’t there and make it your day – go pick one pretty piece of this earth, place it in a glass and tell yourself that you’re special. BE SPECIAL!